


I Love You & I’m Sorry for That

by MySoCalledAngst



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Mentions of Sex, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Other, sad hours require sad work my dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-18 01:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21569707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MySoCalledAngst/pseuds/MySoCalledAngst
Summary: The tale of loving Arthur Fleck, from start to finish.Written as a contest entry.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Reader, Arthur Fleck/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	I Love You & I’m Sorry for That

That clown with the green tufts had drawn your attention like nothing ever had. He was dancing to some jaunty piano tune that bellowed down the street. You couldn’t help but approach him, having to go out of your way to the cross walk, all to throw your spare change in the tip hat. You earned a happy dance from the enigma of a clown, laughing as he spun with elegance. 

He skipped towards you and leaned forward, a gloved finger tapping his cheek. You chuckled and leaned in, the clown turning his head at the last second to steal a quick peck on the lips. You had laughed harder as the clown opened his mouth in surprise, then batted his eyelashes at you, holding two hands over his chest and beat them in the rhythm of a quick heartbeat. 

You wrote your name and number on a scrap of paper from your purse and handed it to him, jotting a quick ‘xo’ under the numbers before you did. 

“Call me anytime, clown.” Then you were gone, going about your day, but never forgetting the dancing clown with green hair that caught your eye from across the street. 

That’s the day you met Arthur Fleck. Or, Carnival, as he told you later was his clown name. 

It had taken two weeks for him to muster the courage to call you, but from that moment on, you were attached at the hip. He was so easy to talk to, his opinions were the only ones that mattered to you, asking Arthur how he felt about every little thing. Did he like your shoes? How about the painting you had just bought? Did he approve of your record collection? Of course, he liked everything about your tastes. Even if he didn’t, he made himself change his view. 

Arthur took to you too, like a bee to a rose. Your heart was open, somehow remaining untainted by the scum of the city. Kind and gentle, you treated him like an old friend despite only knowing him a week. Even upon baring witness to one of his laugh attacks, you read his card and handed it back to him, keeping a gentle touch on his back until uncontrollable laughter turned to suppressible chuckles and choking.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur wanted to cry, but he could only laugh more, violently embarrassed at himself. 

“Don’t be. I know it’s a condition... but you have a beautiful laugh.”

Arthur decided, in that moment, he would love you until the day he died. 

The progressions from friends to lovers was simply natural. Arthur was a hopeless romantic, bringing you flowers and dandelions wrapped in paper, and taking you to the cleanest parks in Gotham and the cheap matinee shows he could afford. You told him countless times that he didn’t need to spend anything, that his company was enough, but Arthur insisted you deserved the world. It had only taken a couple dates before you took to calling him your boyfriend. A simple choice; why want anything else when you had the very best?

Arthur was a giving lover, and a willing learner, spending long night’s between your thighs learning every moan and sound you could make until you were begging him to stop. It was only when you begged would he relent, a coy smile on his face. That damned smile; whenever you saw it, no matter how overstimulated you were, it made you desperate for another round. 

You saw him at his worst, violent laughing fits and going toe to toe with his mother. You helped him pay rent with whatever money you had left over. You ran his baths when he came home, bruised and beaten, listened as he recounted being beat up over a sign by a bunch of kids. You held him close when he came home with a busted nose, confiding in you his experience with the man he was told to be his father. You were there when his mother was in the hospital, tending to his every need. You cried with him when you read the stolen file upon his coffee table in the dark of night, letting him know it wasn’t his fault when you had thrown up after reading the vicious things your beautiful man had to endure. 

And you were there when the Murray show called his home, in the midst of a hot and heavy make out session that Arthur loved so much, not complaining, even once, when he jumped off you and ran to the phone. You leapt into his arms and painted his face in kisses, knowing he would make the best of it, despite knowing that nasty man only wanted to poke more fun at him after playing the tape of his uncontrollable laughter. You wanted the best for him, as he wanted for you. You were beginning to fall for him too. 

Arthur swore he didn’t want you there, that you would make him just too nervous, but you promised to watch from the home you now shared. You asked if he would come over right after, but he seemed to dodge the subject by asking you to watch him do his entrance on a mock stage. You didn’t care to pry; you trusted Arthur Fleck with your life. 

Until that night.

“You get what you fucking deserve!” A gunshot, blood splattering in black and white across your television screen. 

Chaos was firing off at an all time high on the streets, clowns masks everywhere as you watched from the window. Burning cop cars, people with looted items in their arms, screaming and yelling this and that about fucking the rich. You triple checked the door, making sure the locks were done up tight. 

Arthur had dodged you the other day because he never planned on coming home. 

You tossed the apartment apart, clothing and objects askew and broken glass all over until you found his notebook in the kitchen drawer; the one with all the junk. You thumbed to the last used page, covering your mouth as you read the chicken scratch and spelling errors. You had wished you never learned how to read his handwriting. 

‘I will not be staying long. I know they’ll miss me, but I just can’t do it anymore.’ Below that was three words, written over and over again. ‘I love you I love you I love you’ and just below ‘and I am so sorry for that’.

So, what had changed? You were glad he didn’t kill himself, but you were sickened by the thought of your Arthur killing someone else. No... not just one someone, at least four someones. You hadn’t even known about those men on the subway, you never even considered that Arthur was such a good liar, he said he kept no secrets from you. You remembered how he asked you about it after the news clip had played, how you feigned indifference to the death of three rich guys who probably got shot because they were attacking someone.

Had that been the ticket? Did you inadvertently create the monster that killed a man on live television? 

Did you not love him enough?

You threw up in the kitchen sink and collapsed to the tiles, holding yourself, trying to go back in time so you could talk him out of it. Perhaps you stayed there just a few moments, maybe an hour, but you couldn’t be bothered to look at the clock. You kept your mind on happy memories, the ones that involved the Arthur you knew, laughing and smiling and being the gentle man you knew he was. His half empty pack of smokes rested on the ground, and you lit one, wanting to taste him one last time. 

But you were ripped from that safe place you had cultivated in your mind. Your front door knob was jiggling, the chain was being manipulated from the outside. Someone was coming in whether you liked it or not, probably to take anything valuable, maybe hurt you just because you were home.

For a handful of seconds, you considered just letting whatever was to happen, happen. Did you even care to be alive in a world without Arthur? You hadn’t felt like you were living until you had met Carnival, asking you for a little kiss on the cheek, the one that sealed your fate. 

The natural instinct to live was stronger than misery, grabbing the biggest knife from the chef’s block and staying in the kitchen as you heard the telltale creak of your door. A hazy figure of red and yellow entered your vision, blurred with tears. The white face gave him away through your messy vision, blinking and letting the tears fall, able to see him clearly now. You slid the blade back into the wooden block and stepped away, not trusting yourself not to attack him for being so fucking foolish in his actions. 

“Arthur?” You had meant to yell, but only a whisper emerged. 

“No,” he took a drag from his lit smoke “, not anymore.”

“You’ll always be my Arthur.” 

He laughed his fake laugh, the one that could strip the wallpaper clean, leaving the cigarette to hang from his lips as he walked towards you. You backed up as he entered the kitchen, making him stop. 

“Are you... scared of me?” He looked wounded.

You nodded.

He took another step forward, and you took another step back, colliding with the wall. His face grew longer, he just looked so sad, you wanted to hold him... but you couldn’t. You knew what you had said, but this wasn’t your Arthur now. You would remember him as yours, the man who danced with you in his underwear at three in the morning, but this man in your kitchen was not that man. 

“It’s still me, just a little different.”

Joker. That’s what he had been asked to be called on the show. 

Joker. 

It sat bitter on your tongue. You refused to call him that, but you couldn’t call him Arthur anymore either.

“Come with me. I’ll give you everything you could ask for. Money, jewelry, the status of royalty. It’s yours, if you come with me.” Joker extended his hand. 

You looked in his eyes. For the briefest of moments, you saw Arthur behind them. Not like on television; that was purely Joker. But right now, he was Arthur, and he was holding out his hand while begging you to come with him. Oh, how you wanted to take it, and fall into the familiar embrace of the man you knew. But...

Was it a trick? Was Joker playing a game with you, forcing you into his newly born ranks, with the other option being death? You crossed your arms over yourself and looked away. Joker had retained Arthur’s ability to read you like a book. 

“I won’t hurt you, if you say no.”

You turned to look at him, your eyebrows furrowed, watching him wipe the sweat from his palms onto his pants. 

“I’ll leave you alone. I’ll never contact you again, you can forget I ever existed.”

“I can’t forget... not you.”

You knew, even if you cleansed your mind, Gotham would never let you forget. That clip of him shooting Franklin Murray would be all over every news outlet, every year on the anniversary, whatever antics he got up to as Joker would be broadcasted in every radio and television no matter how far you ran. His mere existence would taunt you until one of you met your demise. 

“Then come with me,” He shook his extended hand, making you flinch “, please. I’ll get down on my knees and beg-“

“I don’t want that.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want Arthur back!” You screamed, not caring who in the complex heard. It felt good to unload, but that man just stood there, his eyes casting to his shoes. 

“I can give you the world, but I can’t give you that.” He was so calm in his disposition, it sent shivers down your spine. You knew now that Arthur was just a ghost, being held hostage inside the body of this anarchic antichrist. 

No, he wasn’t a hostage. You could tell, when you had watched him just some time ago, he loved this new persona. 

“If you want me to leave, say nothing. If you want me to stay... say anything.”

A beat of silence. Followed by another. And then, another. 

His blue paint, already smeared along his face, dripped down a little bit more. A fresh tear caught the light radiating from above the stove, and for a moment, you almost said anything. He nodded and turned, a hand clutching his aching chest as he began to walk away.

”Wait.”

Joker turned, his expression full of hope. You were walking towards him, and he opened his arms, expecting you to collapse against him and tell him you loved him. 

Instead you held out his journal, keeping it at arms length. Joker laughed for a moment, wiping the snot that fell from his nose with the back of his hand, letting his tears fall as they may. 

He grabbed the notebook and you kept your hand there too. This was the last moment you would ever share, the last connection you would ever make. You had to savour it; he had to savour it. 

“I love you.” He whispered. 

“And I’m sorry for that.” You couldn’t look at him. 

“Yeah,” he scoffed “, me too.”

You heard a jingling, then the door opening and clasping shut. You took a peak around the foyer wall, his key to the apartment resting on the table.


End file.
